The Company We Keep (36 page)

After seeing old Peshawar, I ask the driver if he knows where Osama bin Ladin’s house is, the one where he lived in the eighties during the Afghan war. I tell him I think it’s in University Town.

“I don’t know what that is,” he says, looking genuinely confused.

“University Town or bin Ladin?”

“I know University Town.”

I make him stop by Peshawar’s museum, a big, cavernous, dusty Victorian place so dark you can’t see the artifacts in their cases. It’s closed for the day, but the door is wide open. I wander around until I find the curator, who’s looking through a microscope at what looks like an eggshell. I ask him where bin Ladin’s house is.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“But you know who I’m talking about?”

“Of course I do. But you say he lived here in Peshawar?”

I promise to come back and visit the museum when it’s open.

As our driver pulls away from the museum, I find myself wondering if the curator knows where bin Ladin lived and doesn’t want to tell me, or if he really doesn’t know. Either way, I think I’m starting to understand better how this man who changed history disappeared like a diamond in an inkwell.

Islamabad, Pakistan:
DAYNA

B
ob is on the phone talking to Rafiq, and I can tell something is wrong. Bob’s tone is flat; he’s not joking. He keeps asking, “Are you sure? Are you sure?” I haven’t seen him this upset in a long time.

Bob gets off the phone and confirms my worst fear: the judge has turned down guardianship. I want to cry, but I don’t want Reela to see me upset. I lie on the ground with her, look into her little dark eyes, and wonder what will become of all of us.

Bob says quietly that we’ll appeal to a higher court, adding that Munir’s already preparing the paperwork. The bright spot is that the denial is only oral. There’s a possibility the judge will reconsider.

Everything seemed so clear this morning. We’d made our reservations to leave. I’d e-mailed friends. And now we’re prisoners of a legal system I don’t understand. I could kick myself. It was stupid to do this on our own, without an international adoption agency. I turn my face away from Reela and cry quietly, for both of us.

The cold truth is that there are no Christian orphanages in Pakistan for her to go to. Her father cannot take her back. I have no idea what the state would do with her. Do we live here forever with her?

The next morning Bob starts making calls as if he were a CIA
operative newly arrived in Pakistan, trying to figure out who’s in charge. It’s his way of coping.

His first call is to the ABC fixer, a contact he’s arranged through our friends at ABC News in New York. The fixer doesn’t know the judge and can’t help with the court system, but his cousin is able to verify that her birth certificate is authentic. In a country awash in forged documents, it’s something.

The next appointment is with Hamid Gul, the former head of Pakistan’s Interservices Intelligence. Gul was a driving force in the Afghan war, overseeing the arming and training of the Mujahidin. He tells Bob he’d be happy to help if there were a way, but Pakistan’s judiciary is notoriously independent. It would take the intervention of the head of ISI to move the courts.

Bob finally goes to see another notorious figure—Colonel Imam, onetime ISI liaison with the Taliban. Nothing comes of that either, other than Bob’s getting the man’s take on the current war in Afghanistan.

It’s fascinating, watching Bob rake the ashes of old history, but I think we both know this is action for action’s sake. No one is going to intervene on our behalf. So much for a fat Rolodex. And to think this is Pakistan, a place where one assumes things like this can be fixed.

Munir meets us the next evening in front of his office. We stand in the parking lot because of the blackout. The only light is from kerosene lanterns hanging in the storefronts. While Bob talks to Munir, Rafiq tries to reassure me that Munir will win on appeal. Reela’s asleep in my arms. I keep asking what will happen to her if they say no, the same question I’ve asked over and over during the last two days. Rafiq says they’ll take care of her. But I know that’s impossible.

Finally, Munir walks over to me and says, “I’m sorry. It seems the judge won’t reconsider.”

Munir explains that the judge turned down guardianship because we don’t have permanent residence in Islamabad, and he won’t agree to hand over custody of a child to someone not living in his jurisdiction. “Legally it makes no sense,” Munir says. “If that were the law, no one could adopt from Pakistan.”

Munir offers his speculation that the judge is afraid to be caught up in a child-trafficking case and wants someone else to make the decision on guardianship. There’s no choice now but go to the appeals court, he says. A different judge.

I’m all cried out, and just listen to him. On the one hand, I’m relieved to hear that we were turned down for guardianship for a reason having no basis in law. But I also know that, legal or not, it’s not surprising that a Taliban judge would refuse to give custody of a Pakistani child to two Americans who once worked for the CIA.

“We had no choice but to go before a judge from the Taliban,” Munir says, reading my mind. “I’m sorry.”

I’m filled with second-guessing. It now seems like such a stupid mistake to have given the judge Bob’s book and the DVD. But there’s no point in telling Munir that. I ask him instead whether he thinks the appeal will work.

“I cannot know, madam. But I’ll try my absolute best.” Munir insists that he argue the appeal for free.

On the way home we stop at the Marriott hotel, which is in the government cantonment area of Islamabad, near parliament and the American embassy. With its concrete barriers and spotlights, it resembles a fortress. But passing time there is better than spending the night at the bungalow by ourselves, trying to think our way through this. We sit in the café and order juices. I let Reela play in the booth.

There’s simply no Plan B if the appeal doesn’t work. I know no
one’s really at fault, but I’m angry anyway. I try to focus on something else and not worry about what could happen. But all I can think about is how the Marriott is a metaphor for what’s happening to Pakistan—the fences, metal detectors, drop bars, and armed guards are the only things holding back the boiling chaos.

Islamabad, Pakistan:
BOB

P
eople crowd the outside of the appeals courtroom, peering through the latticed brick wall to get a glimpse inside. A guard outside taps his scuffed desk with an oak baton, keeping them at bay. We follow Munir inside and sit on a bench at a long table filled with lawyers, all in black worsted wool suits, stacks of files and papers loosely bound with string in front of them. The appeals judge isn’t here yet.

Munir starts to argue loudly in Urdu with another lawyer. He turns around and grabs a piece of paper from his folder on the table to show it to him. They both shake their heads in disbelief. I have no idea whether this has anything to do with our case.

When Munir goes outside in front of the court to talk to his assistant, I follow.

“Is something the matter?” I ask Munir.

“It will be fine.”

“But we thought that about the first judge.”

“This one is my friend.” Munir squeezes my arm. “There are no worries.”

We’re joined by another lawyer, who says something to Munir, and Munir hurries back into court with him. The assistant and I are left studying the square in front of the appeals court. In the short hour since we’ve arrived, the streets around the courts are already swollen with vegetable peddlers, police, hawkers, and people just standing around. Two veiled women walk by, holding hands.

“Prostitutes,” the assistant says.

The two are as conservatively dressed as any I’ve seen in Islamabad, and I look at him for an explanation.

“This place is Islamabad’s red-light district. Everyone knows who the prostitutes are.”

“But why the courts?”

He shrugs his shoulders. It’s a mystery as deep as why no one in Peshawar seems to know where bin Ladin’s old house is.

I return to the courtroom and reclaim my seat next to Dayna and Reela. Munir is arguing with a clerk, who finally opens the gate to let Munir behind the bench and into the judge’s chambers. The other lawyers ignore him, arguing loudly as if practicing their cases in front of the judge.

The judge comes out of his chambers and takes his seat at the bench. Munir follows, but lets himself through a gate and stands before the judge. Without preamble, he starts what sounds like an impassioned oration. From time to time Munir looks over at us, the judge following his gaze. The judge’s face is blank. It’s as if we’re the accused in a criminal trial. This goes on for five minutes.

When Munir is finished, the judge turns to a clerk at an ancient computer terminal and tells him something. The clerk types for a couple minutes before signaling that he’s done.

Munir turns to us. “Please, come forward.”

As we approach, a lawyer walks up to the bench and hands the judge a pink folder. The judge reads it, and Dayna and I stand there waiting for him to finish. It’s the longest minute either of us has spent in our lives.

The judge hands the file back to the lawyer and looks at Dayna and me as if it were the first time he’s seen us.

“Thank His Honor,” Munir says.

I think I’m beginning to understand what’s happened, but I look at Munir.

“The judge has granted you guardianship. His order is being typed now.”

I glance at the clerk who’s started typing again. I sense that it’s real now, and look over at Dayna and Reela and smile. I would kiss them, but kissing is probably forbidden in a Pakistani court.

The mechanics of it all will forever remain a mystery. But none of that matters. We have our daughter.